


now show me your fangs

by wincechesters



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Fluff, Halloween, Halloween Costumes, M/M, Making Out, VLD Halloween Exchange 2018
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-11 00:04:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wincechesters/pseuds/wincechesters
Summary: Keith snickers, knocking a teasing elbow against Shiro’s side. “You scared?” he teases, voice low. “Shiro, you’re dressed as a zombie.”“I’m not scared,” Shiro retorts. His breath ghosts over Keith’s collar bone where the collar of his jacket has fallen open and Keith has to suppress a shiver. “It surprised me.”-----In which the Holts’ annual college Halloween horror movie party gets an upgrade when Keith finally meets the hot guy he’s seen all around campus face to face—while both of them are in costume.





	now show me your fangs

**Author's Note:**

> Written for @outofturtle/heithisking for the Sheith Halloween Exchange! I really hope you enjoy it!  
> Thanks to the mods for running such a fun exchange and thanks as always to Meg for beta! Title is from _Teeth_ by Lady Gaga.

It’s 9:48 pm on a Saturday night, and Lance is banging on Keith’s bedroom door.

Banging on the door and yelling. “Keith! Dude, this is way beyond fashionable at this point. We gotta go!”

Keith rolls his eyes, wrenching the door open mid-bang and sending Lance careening into his room. He watches, one eyebrow raised as Lance picks himself up, dusting off the shoulders of his artfully-ripped plaid shirt with all the manufactured ease of a skinny guy attempting to masquerade as a werewolf. There’s patches of fur pasted on his face. “Have you finished styling that mop yet? We’re going to miss all the action! Pidge texted that Allura’s already there and she looks hella fine.” His brow furrows suddenly, and he casts his gaze over Keith, deep judgement in his eyes as he takes in the ripped black skinny jeans, black t-shirt and customary leather jacket. “Dude. This is supposed to be a costume party! You need to dress up!”

“I am dressed up.”

Lance rolls his eyes. “As what, sad emo wannabe bad boy? Oh wait, that’s what you look like _all the time_. It’s not a costume if you’re going as _yourself_.”

Keith scowls. “I’m a vampire. See?” He pulls up his lip with one hand, showing off the small but noticeable fangs he’d casted over his own teeth.

“Ugh, _fine_.” Lance points a warning finger in Keith’s face. Keith swats it away. “But only because we’re already incredibly late. And I’m not helping you if Pidge decides to bite your head off.”

“She won’t bite my head off.” He’s sure. At least 60 percent.

“Uh huh.” Lance cocks one shapely brow. “Remember the time Hunk forgot his ugly sweater for the Holts’ Christmas party?”

Keith fights back a wince at the memory. Someone so small and cute really shouldn’t be so terrifying. Maybe he’s only 40 percent sure. “Whatever. I thought you said we were late?”

It’s a short walk off campus to the Holts’ house, made only slightly longer as they weave around streams of kids dressed up in their Halloween finest. Keith had never bothered to ask how Pidge and Matt had scored such a great rental in a residential neighborhood, close enough to the University that all their friends could stumble home even in their drunkest states, but far enough that they weren’t technically on the grounds, surrounded by trees and families rather than noisy drunks. He’s afraid to hear the answer; knowing Pidge and Matt’s frankly terrifying combined skill set, it might not be entirely legal.

Keith dodges around an adorable little cowboy complete with hat and plastic gun in a holster on his hip, turning up onto the Holts’ walk. The trees on either side of the walkway are festooned with cobwebs, plastic tombstones rising from the ground like rows of crooked teeth.

Lance has to knock twice to be heard over the music already rattling the walls of the little house, but eventually Pidge yanks the door open. She’s recognizable only by the round glasses perched over the painted bridge of her nose, and the unruly strand of brown hair that pokes out of the headpiece she’s wearing. Lance greets her with a theatrical howl, raising a hairy hand to give her a high five.

“Love to see you embrace your true form, Pidge,” he says waving an approving hand over her carefully constructed foam android costume.

“It’s good, right?” She flashes a toothy grin, standing aside to let them in. Her gaze falls on Keith and the grin falls away. “Hey―Keith! This is a _costumes mandatory_ party.” Her hazel eyes flash dangerously behind her glasses.

“I am dressed up!” Keith protests, baring his teeth in a theatrical grimace. “See!”

She squints at him with the air of someone casting judgement. “Fine,” she says finally, waving them into the house.

“Fine?!” Lance rounds on her. “You’re not going to give him shit?! He’s wearing his normal street clothes. I trusted you!”

Pidge shrugs. “He makes a convincing vampire.”

“Thanks.”

Lance glares at him. “Dude, that’s not a compliment.”

Keith rolls his eyes and pushes past him into the party. The room is already full, their mutual friends and some of Matt’s―some of whom they recognize, others who are unfamiliar―filling the room with merrymaking. They’ve really outdone themselves with the decorating; a veritable fortune’s worth of candles are lit on every flat surface, cobwebs in every corner, plastic body parts and rats and ravens perched amongst bottles of booze and bowls of snacks. _Monster Mash_ is playing on the Holts’ soundsystem, long ago rigged by virtue of their joint technical genius to be far better than two college students should be able to afford.

He smiles weakly when a few people he recognizes call out to him, but leaves the socializing to Lance, making a beeline for the drinks table, where he’s spotted a comfortingly familiar face.

“Keith, Lance!” Hunk says, raising a Red Solo cup in celebration of their arrival. He’s dressed like a mad scientist, and he’s got what looks like an Erlenmeyer flask filled with violently red liquid in his other hand.

“Hunk! My man!” Lance casts an expert eye over the bottles of alcohol lined up haphazardly on the table. “What’re we drinking?”

“You have to try this new punch I mixed up!” He starts pouring, shoving cups into both Keith and Lance’s hands.

Keith eyes the concoction warily. Hunk’s culinary skills are legendary―his drink-mixing ones equally so, if for slightly more disastrous reasons. “Do I want to know what’s in here?”

Lance is already throwing back his drink, and he coughs when he emerges after a long swig. “Best not to ask,” he wheezes. “Bottom’s up!”

Keith grimaces, but tips his cup back, too, glancing away from Lance so his roommate won’t see him choke if it’s really that bad. It isn’t, but he finds himself choking anyway, his eyes catching on someone else he recognizes from across the room. He’s in costume, dark circles painted below his eyes and a greyish tinge to his skin due to some artfully applied makeup, but the tattered clothes he’s wearing do nothing to hide broad shoulders and chest that Keith is embarrassingly familiar with, nor the brushed metal prosthetic, and that shock of white hair at the crown of his head is unmistakable.

“Whoa, Keith, buddy, you okay?” Lance slams him on the back a couple times as he coughs. “It’s not that bad, dude! Have some respect for Hunk’s mad mixing skills!”

Keith glares at Lance, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “It’s not the drink, asshole, quit hitting me!” He ducks away from Lance and levels a punch at his shoulder. He tries not to glance across the room again and fails, and he curses Lance’s quick eye when he catches where Keith’s gaze has gone.

“Hey, isn’t that―”

“ _Shut up_ ,” Keith hisses, and he feels the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

Hunk ducks around them, his dark eyes lit up with curiosity. “Isn’t that who?”

“That guy, the one Keith is always stalking!”

“I’m not―! I don’t _stalk_ him! I just saw him a couple times, around campus.”

Lance snorts. “Yeah, like in the quad, in the cafeteria, coming back from your Astro 212 class, in the Physics lab wing, at Pidge’s presentation―”

“Oh hey, look,” Keith interrupts loudly, “Isn’t that Allura over there? You should go say hi to her.”

It is Allura, and she’s dressed as Wonder Woman, her white hair styled in shining waves and blown back away from her face to show a gold tiara across her forehead. She’s beautiful as always, Keith notes objectively, and her timely appearance is the best distraction for Lance, who visibly melts beside him.

“Oh wow, she looks good. She looks good doesn’t she?”

Keith, who is about as gay as you can get, can only shrug.

Lance is still mooning. “I wonder if I asked her really, _really_ nicely if she’d sit on my fa―”

“I beg you, for the love of all that is holy, do _not_ finish that sentence.”

Lance turns a sly eye back on Keith. “As if you wouldn’t do unspeakable things to get your hot stalkee guy to―”

Keith claps a hand over Lance’s mouth. “ _Shut. Up._ ”

Lance is still smirking, Keith’s hand doing nothing to stop his incomprehensible retort. Thankfully Allura catches sight of them and weaves her way through the crowd to say hi, accepting a drink from Hunk and throwing it back like it’s nothing. Lance’s gaze is the living embodiment of heart eyes as she puts them all to shame.

"Hey Allura," Lance says, sneaking a sly glance at Keith that tells him he is going to deeply regret removing his hand from Lance's mouth. "You know all the beautiful people right?"

Allura frowns. "I'm not sure what makes you think that, Lance. I don't choose my friends based on their attractiveness."

Lance waves a hand. "Sure, but birds of a feather, and all that." He ducks in close to her and points across the room, dodging nimbly out of Keith's restraining grasp and ignoring the dismayed sound that bursts out of his mouth. "Do you know that guy over there?"

"Oh, that's Shiro!" A brilliant smile lights up her face. She waves when the guy sees her looking and smiles back across the room. "He spots for me at the gym, sometimes. He's the only one who has a hope of keeping up with me."

Lance stares at her, starstruck. "Just when I think you can't get any cooler." He shakes his head to clear it. "Focus, McClain! Do you think you might be able to introduce him to my man Keith, here?"

Allura turns a calculating gaze in Keith's direction, and her smile goes sly.

He can feel the back of his neck growing hot. "You don't have to—"

"Too late," Lance interjects, "he's coming over here!"

Keith hates them all.

"Hey, Allura!" Shiro, apparently, says. "You look great, as always." His voice is deep and smooth, cutting through the music.

"As do you!" She slings a friendly arm over his shoulder, turning him to face the rest of them. "Shiro, I want you to meet some friends of mine. This is Lance, Hunk, and—" she smirks "—Keith."

"Hey guys," he says, giving a friendly wave of his prosthetic hand to Lance and Hunk, before his eyes fall on Keith. "Hey, I think I've seen you around campus, haven't I?"

"Oh, you bet you have," Lance mumbles. Keith elbows him in the gut.

"Yeah, I've seen you around, too," he says to Shiro, ignoring Lance's wheezing. He offers his hand, noticing how Shiro hesitates before extending his prosthetic to shake. The metal is cool against his palm, and smooth. “I like the zombie look. Very, uh. Artful?"

Shiro snorts. “Thanks. Matt did the makeup, though. And you are...” he says, his voice friendly, crooking thoughtful fingers against his chin. Keith tries not to feel a thrill when Shiro's eyes skate up and down his body. It’s the costume, he’s checking out the _costume_. "A rockstar?"

“Haha. Close, I guess." He bares his teeth in an expression he hopes isn't too much like a grimace, and Shiro's eyes widen. Shiro leans in to get a better look at Keith’s fangs.

"Rockstar vampire, then," Shiro says, grinning as he straightens back up. "I like it."

“ _Thank_ you,” Keith retorts, turning to roll his eyes at Lance, only to find that Lance is nowhere to be seen. In fact all of their friends including Hunk have casually disappeared into the swell of becostumed college students slowly filling up the little house. “What the…”

Shiro stretches up to his full height, turning to look over the heads of the crowd. He’s several inches taller than almost everyone in the room, including Keith. “Looks like they ditched,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck as he turns back to Keith, and the scar that bisects his nose stands out in stark comparison to the faint flush that colors his cheeks. “I don’t see them.”

“Traitors,” Keith mutters. He’s going to kick Lance’s ass. He would kick Allura’s too, for colluding with this conspiracy, but she could undoubtedly beat him to a pulp if she so set her mind to it. “Uh. Do you want―” he waves his hand at the drink table they’re still standing in front of.

Shiro smiles. It’s devastating. “Sure. What do you recommend?”

Keith takes a pull of his own drink, wincing as he surfaces. “Anything that’s not _this_.”

Shiro laughs, reaching around Keith for a cup and the bottle of vodka, and Keith feels his own mouth pull up into an involuntary smile in response. It’s a nice sound. He hopes he’ll get to hear it again.

“So I know I’ve seen you a few times around campus.”

“I swear I’m not stalking you,” Keith blurts, then scowls into his cup to hide his blush.

Shiro laughs―not at Keith, but with him, and it’s a nice sound.  “I didn’t think you were. But I just―I noticed you, is all.”

Keith looks up sharply. Shiro is blushing, a pretty pink color creeping across his cheekbones, and he takes a long drink, not meeting Keith’s eyes.

“I noticed you too,” he says, his voice dropping low, and he thinks he sees Shiro’s eyes darken where they flick up under long lashes to meet Keith’s gaze.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Keith confirms. “I think we must be in the same program―lots in common anyway. What’s your major?”

It’s easy, talking to Shiro. They talk majors, classes, professors (“Iverson isn’t _that_ bad.” “Easy for you to say, Shiro. He didn’t threaten to report _you_ to the Dean!”), and eventually, the new observatory in the Astronomy building. Keith hasn’t seen it yet; Shiro promises, in a low voice that Keith can only just hear over the synthesized bop of the _Ghostbusters_ theme playing on the Holts’ rigged system, that he’ll sneak Keith in to see it the first chance he gets. Keith might have misconstrued that one for a friendly invitation, but the dark shine of Shiro’s eyes, the way his warm left hand falls on Keith’s shoulder and gives a slow squeeze―that’s harder to misinterpret.

His breath feels tight in his chest, pulse hammering just below his skin. He’s hot all over, and he’s not sure if it’s the alcohol, his leather jacket, the crowd, or Shiro. He bites his lip, feeling the tip of one fang dig into the soft flesh, and he stops breathing when he sees Shiro’s eyes fall to his mouth.

“All right, nerds!”

No one can yell like a Holt. Pidge’s voice slices through the din and shatters whatever tenuous thing had been building between them. Shiro straightens―when had he been leaning in towards Keith?―and he swallows, a blush coloring the arches of his high cheekbones and across his nose beneath the scar. It’s visible even under the greyish zombie makeup, and Keith thinks he’d love to see it without the cream to cover it.

Matt, over at the stereo, cuts the music. “It’s scary movie time, ghosts and ghouls!”

“What are we watching?” Lance yells from across the room.

Matt brandishes a DVD case, which boasts a grainy close-up of a girl with stringy hair, and the word REC in square brackets beside a red circle. Keith’s never heard of it, but Lance gives a yelp and dives for the couch, and there’s a mad scramble as everyone rushes into the living room, tripping over legs and props as they fight for seats.

Keith is two steps behind Shiro, which means by the time he gets to the room, the only seat left is beside Lance. He makes to sit there but Lance pointedly spreads himself wide, sprawling skinny limbs over two couch cushions and smirking up at Keith like he’s not about to get his ass beat.

“Hey,” someone says, and then metal fingers are curling around his wrist, giving an insistent tug. Keith staggers, tripping over the outstretched handle of someone’s plastic pitchfork, tumbling almost directly into Shiro’s lap.

Shiro laughs, low. “There’s room for you here,” he says, indicating the beanbag chair he’s sprawled across, and Keith grumbles, flushing, and rearranges himself at Shiro’s side. He begs to differ: there’s barely room for Shiro’s not inconsiderable bulk, but he isn’t about to complain, not when Shiro leans back, his arm resting casually on the beanbag behind Keith, just inches away from draping over his shoulders.

“Thanks,” he mutters, and he feels the corner of his mouth tick up in response to Shiro’s warm smile, and he can almost ignore the distinctly Pidge-like snicker from across the room. His friends are menaces, to a one, but somehow Keith can’t find it in him to be mad about it, not with Shiro’s solid heat at his side, the way the outside of their thighs press together in the dip of the beanbag chair’s questionable embrace.

The movie is pretty good, better than some of the Holts’ previous years’ choices, and certainly better than any of the other zombie flicks he’s seen. Keith chalks it up to it being a foreign film, and the grainy, handheld camera style, combined with the close-quarters of the apartment building its shot in, lend it a kind of visceral terror that he can appreciate. He notices this with a concentrated effort, his brain buzzing with Shiro’s proximity so that he has to force himself to watch. It’s more than a little difficult, with Shiro’s warmth pressed up against his side, his curved behind Keith - not touching, but close enough that Keith is painfully aware of it.

The camera is jostling back and forth, screams echoing around them out of Pidge and Matt’s sound system, and Keith feels Shiro tense at his side. The next moment he jumps, jostling Keith, then casts a sheepish glance in Keith’s direction.

“Sorry,” he murmurs under his breath, and Keith thinks he sees a flush darken Shiro’s cheeks.

Keith snickers, knocking a teasing elbow against Shiro’s side. “You scared?” he teases, voice low. “Shiro, you’re _dressed as a zombie_.”

“I’m not _scared_ ,” Shiro retorts. His breath ghosts over Keith’s collar bone where the collar of his jacket has fallen open and Keith has to suppress a shiver. “It surprised me.”

“Sure, sure,” Keith says, laughing when Shiro bumps him with his body. He waits for Shiro to rearrange himself, to pull away from Keith’s side, but he stays there, the lean, muscled length of him pressed in one long line against Keith’s body. Keith’s breath catches in his throat, and he blames his courage on the fizzy buzz of alcohol running through his veins as he leans in closer, tucking himself just a little into the curve between Shiro’s arm and his side.

For a moment he thinks that Shiro hasn’t noticed, or that he’s ignoring Keith pressing himself up against Shiro like a cat, but then Shiro’s arm tightens to curl around Keith and tuck him in even closer.

If Keith had had a hard time focusing on the movie before, it’s nearly impossible now. Despite his protestations, Shiro jumps and gasps at all the intended moments, holding his breath during the suspense and yelling involuntarily when zombies swarm down the stairs of the on-screen apartment. Keith can’t help but laugh, and he casts a surreptitious glance around the room before disentangling himself to sling an arm around Shiro and tug him closer.

“Don’t worry, Shiro,” he whispers, and Shiro turns so that Keith is saying it directly into his ear, his nose brushing against Shiro’s undercut. “I’ll protect you.”

Shiro groans and jostles Keith again, but when things get particularly hairy onscreen, Keith doesn’t fail to notice how he closes his eyes and ducks into Keith’s neck. He thinks he feels the soft brush of lips against his skin―not a kiss, just a coincidental meeting of their bodies but it might as well be for how it makes Keith light up like a torch―and he hopes that Shiro doesn’t feel the heavy thrum of his frantic pulse against his mouth.

―――

The movie ends. Somehow Keith gets through it without spontaneously combusting or climbing straight into Shiro’s lap, but it’s a near thing, prevented only by the proximity of all his friends and the gratuitous gore and messy, zombie-inflicted death taking place on the screen before them.

Matt catapults himself towards the light switch the second the movie ends, flicking on the lights to a chorus of groans. “Shots anyone?”

Shiro rakes a hand through his hair. “Matt, it’s late.”

Matt’s eyes fall on Shiro and Keith notices the way they light up with a sinister light terrifyingly reminiscent of Pidge’s when he sees how they’re wrapped around each other. “Oh yeah, old man? Got somewhere else to be?”

Shiro flushes again and withdraws his arm from around Keith’s shoulders. Keith feels cold where it left him but he catches the apologetic look Shiro flashes him, and he doesn’t move away. “No but I have a paper due on Monday. As do _you,_ Holt.”

Matt waves a hand. “C’mon Shirogane, you know I write better three hours before the deadline and still hungover from a two day drinking binge.”

Shiro snorts. “Whatever you say. But some of us aren’t genius wunderkinds; the rest of us need a little more time to churn out a half-decent paper. Especially for Sanda’s class.”

“Don’t listen to him,” Matt says, and Keith looks around behind him before he realizes Matt is talking to him. “Shiro’s top of our program. All the professors love him. _Even_ Sanda. That’s why she gives him such a hard time.”

Shiro’s eyes narrow. “Fine. I’ll have _one_ more. But that’s it.”

Matt whoops and Keith lets Shiro up, following more sedately to the drinks table where Matt starts pouring shots of tequila into glasses shaped like bats with outstretched wings. He hands one to Shiro, and Keith is surprised when he reaches past Shiro to press one into Keith’s hands as well.

“Cheers, boys,” Matt says with a wink before throwing his back and Keith and Shiro exchange amused, sardonic glances before Shiro reaches out to tap their glasses together in a toast before they both take their own shots.

Matt whoops and darts off, no doubt to wrangle more party goers to join him in ill-advised shots, leaving Shiro and Keith standing awkwardly together by the drinks table. Lance gives a shout of “beer pong time! Who will challenge me, the undefeated beer pong champion?!” and Keith grimaces.

“Ugh, he’s never going to let me live that down.”

Shiro quirks one questioning eyebrow at him and Keith shakes his head ruefully. “He beat me at beer pong _once,_ and he’ll never let me forget it. Never mind that I flattened his ass the very next day when we sparred―a _real_ test of skill.”

Shiro laughs, that low chuckle that sets a shiver starting at the base of Keith’s spine. “Guess we should stay out of the way, huh?” He glances around. “It’s kind of hot in here, do you―” he swallows. “Do you want to go out on the back deck for some fresh air for a minute?”

Keith’s no expert, having had very few true experiences with relationships or hookups or the like, but he’s fairly certain it’s a line. The way that Shiro blushes and swallows when Keith meets his eyes tells him his instincts aren’t wrong.

“Sure,” he says, gesturing towards the back door of the little house with as much nonchalance as he can muster, his heartbeat hammering in his ears and heat gathering deep in the pit of his stomach. “I could use some fresh air.”

By some miracle they manage to slip out unnoticed, and it’s blissfully quiet out here, once the door swings shut behind them. They can still hear the thrum of the bass from the music Pidge has revived with a vengeance, feel it rumbling in the old creaky boards beneath their feet, but the rest is muffled and seems very far away.

Shiro makes his way to the edge of the porch, leaning his crossed forearms against the bannister. He looks up towards the sky, his figure a dark cut out against the smattering of bright stars, the light from the window highlighting the strong line of his square jaw, the set of his broad shoulders. It’s cool out here in the October breeze, and the bare tree next to the porch trembles with the brush of wind. Shiro shivers, the artfully torn white t-shirt and ripped jeans doing little to cut the chill.

Keith steps up beside him, near enough that his arm brushes Shiro’s, his smaller form blocking the wind from that side. Shiro glances down at him and smiles―is that nervousness in the tight set of his dark eyes?―and bumps Keith with his shoulder.

“You’re not cold?” he says, his voice gone soft.

Keith shrugs. “This jacket’s warm.”

“I’ll bet.” Shiro’s eyes skate over him and he turns to face Keith, bracing his prosthetic arm against the bannister. “It looks nice. Uh, good on you, I mean.”

Keith feels the corner of his mouth tick up in a lopsided grin. “Oh yeah? So the costume’s okay?”

Shiro nods once, fervently his gaze flickering over Keith’s body again before returning to his face.  “It’s great,” he says. “I especially love the―the teeth.”

Keith grins, flashing him a glimpse of said teeth. “Thanks. They feel weird in my mouth, though.”

“Oh yeah?”

Is he imagining things or is Shiro leaning in towards him? In the dark everything feels close, but he can feel the heat of Shiro through the thin fabric of his t-shirt, a sharp contrast to the cool breeze at his back. He gives in to the urge to lean in closer, letting his fingertips graze the tips of Shiro’s metal ones where they rest, curled like a question on the bannister.

Shiro’s breath catches and then he’s moving, slotting their fingers together against the aged wood, and he ducks his head and leans in to press a tentative kiss to the corner of Keith’s mouth. It’s a brush of his lips more than anything, but Keith feels his heart jump up into his throat, feels his lips part on a gasp, and then he’s stepping in closer, his free hand moving up to clutch at the firm muscle of Shiro’s shoulder and pull him in for a proper kiss.

Their mouths meet, lips moving tentatively at first and then more sure. Shiro tastes like vodka and soda but his lips are soft, and his tongue, when it slips tentatively into Keith’s mouth sends a shiver down Keith’s spine that has nothing to do with the wind. He matches the movement enthusiastically, hoping his inexperience doesn’t show too badly, but then starts when Shiro stiffens and pulls back.

“Sorry,” Keith mutters, embarrassed, and moves to disentangle himself from Shiro. “I don’t―I haven’t done this many times.”

Shiro shakes his head, locking their fingers tighter together to keep Keith from retreating. He slides his other hand reluctantly from where it had come to rest on the arch of Keith’s hip bone, reaching up towards his mouth to withdraw―

Oh god. It’s one of Keith’s fake fangs.

“Shit,” Keith blurts, and he snatches the fang out of Shiro’s hand. He yanks out the other one, shoving them both into the front pocket of his jeans, and he’s grateful for the dark that hides his flush. “God, I’m sorry, I―”

“It’s okay, Keith,” Shiro says, with a low laugh, and his hand slides back over Keith’s hip. This time, he tucks his thumb under the hem of Keith’s t-shirt, sliding fingers cool from the night air against the bare skin of Keith’s side. “Hey, at least I can confirm―they do feel really weird in your mouth.”

Keith groans shoving at Shiro’s shoulder. “You’re terrible,” he laments, but his mouth curls up into a smile.

“Does that mean you don’t want me to kiss you again?”

“Shut up,” Keith says, ignoring the burn in his cheeks to fist his hand in the collar of Shiro’s tattered shirt, drawing him back into a kiss even more heated than before. He swallows Shiro’s laugh, a thrill running through him when Shiro’s hand slides further inside his shirt, around to the small of his back, tugging him in close. Keith goes, letting Shiro move him, slotting his thigh between Shiro’s so their hips are flush together. He gives an experimental rock against him, and is rewarded when the sound Shiro makes into his mouth this time is a groan.

Behind them, the door crashes open suddenly, slamming against the outside of the house. Shiro and Keith both jump, leaping away from each other instinctively, Keith whirling around to find Lance in the doorway, one eyebrow quirked suggestively and a crooked smirk on his face.

“Well, well, what have we here.”

Keith rolls his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. “Ugh. What do you want?”

Lance leans himself up against the doorframe, the very picture of nonchalance. “Well the Sharp Shooter just finished wiping the floor with everyone in there. You’re the only one whose ass I have yet to beat at beer pong.”

“So? I’m _busy_.”

“I can see that.” Lance’s grin turns, if possible, even more lascivious. “But you can’t tell me you’re willing to let last year’s ass-whooping stand, are you Keith?” He steps forward, pointing one over-dramatic finger in Keith’s face. “I challenge you! To a game of wits and skill, a game of balls and beer, a game of―”

“Ugh, fine! I’ll come play, if it’ll shut you up.” Keith casts an apologetic glance at Shiro over his shoulder while Lance crows his victory.

“Two minutes! I’ll see you at the pong table,” Lance says pointing two fingers between his eyes and Keith’s. “Also, just an FYI: you have zombie makeup on your chin.”

He waggles his eyebrows and disappears, the door banging shut behind him with a noisy clatter. “Ugh,” Keith says again, wiping ruefully at his face. “I would say we should just ignore him but if I’m not in there in the next two minutes he’s going to be right back out here ruining the mood some more.”

Shiro groans, curling his arms around Keith’s waist and drawing him in close to his _very_ firm chest. “Well we better get in there then, I guess. Want a partner?”

Keith grumbles from where he’s buried between Shiro’s pecs. “I wouldn’t make you do that. As much as I hate to admit it, Lance is really good at it. I’d hate for you to have to share in my shame. Also, didn’t you say you wanted to head home soon so you could work on that paper?”

“Yeah, but you convinced me it might be worth my while to stick around. And don’t worry,” Shiro whispers into his hair, and Keith can feel his smile. “I’m _really_ good at beer pong.”

He pulls back far enough to grin, dazzling and mischievous, and Keith can’t help his answering smile. He laces their fingers together and squeezes.

“Well then, what are we waiting for? We’ve got some ass to kick.”

Shiro chuckles, and lets Keith lead him back into the house.

**Author's Note:**

> I watched REC at one of my own Halloween parties a few years back. I feel you Shiro; it was rly scary, okay. You are valid.  
> Thanks so much for reading! I’m on twitter @maccachino!


End file.
